He found moving through the forest surprisingly exhilarating. His feet left only light marks in the snow as he glided over it. At first he moved with great haste, desiring to put as much distance as possible between himself and the confines of the mortal settlement. Effortlessly he ran for two days straight, stopping only to eat and see to his personal needs. When he finally slowed, the sights and sounds of the forest in winter soothed his restlessness spirit. It truly was beautiful - even if it was not home.

For many more days he wandered seeking signs of anything which might bring him hope or at least indicate the he was not the only one in the forest. He snared rabbits for food when his supplies ran low and speared some fish in a large racing stream. Occasionally he found signs of wolves stalking him and dealt with them decisively, stripping them of their pelts as his prize.

Just past dawn one morning, he found evidence of a large group having moved through the wood. He followed the trail of broken tree limbs and torn bushes until he came to a clearing. The bodies of orcs lay scattered all about as if a battle had been fought there. The snow hid much, but some trees till bore red and black blood stains. The orcs obviously had not simply fought each other.

Little was left to scavenge from the rotting orc bodies and nothing remained of those they fought. No turned earth, nor piles of stones stood nearby to indicate graves of the fallen. Given the number of dead orcs and the amount of red blood even after all of this time, some of their opponents had to have fallen. The thought of what may have happened to any non-orc bodies turned his stomach for Faroniel had told him of the cruel fates of those slain by orcs.

After a thorough investigation of the area, he understood from which direction each party had come to the battle and in which direction the orcs left afterward, dragging many large somethings with them.  He fell to his knees reeling when he realized what the orcs must have dragged, for dried reddish blood still marred trees and rocks all along the orc trail. The orcs took many victims judging from what he could discern from the long cold trail. The thought that this winter the evil creatures would not go hungry made his stomach churn even more.

When he finally felt able to move again, he stood and looked about the fringes of the wide area where the battle had raged, looking for any signs that perhaps someone had escaped. It took him more than an hour, but he finally found evidence of a few non-orcs having moved through some trees in the general direction from which the non-orcs had come. Whoever they were, they moved with stealth in spite of their obvious injuries.

The fading light of early evening did little to obscure his vision as he continued to pick his way through the underbrush, following the trail. As the sun rose the next morning, he found what he sought: the bodies of thirteen Elves lay huddled in cloaks. Some slumped against trees while others were curled in a fetal position as if they had died in great pain. Near the remnants of a long dead fire, he found a lone survivor propped in a sitting position against a tree.

Relieved to see another of his kind and alive at that, he ran to the ellon. Grave wounds marred the ellon's body in spite of crude bandages and dried-out herb packs pressed to the infected injuries. Tearing strips from the cloaks of the dead, he restarted the fire and set about trying to help the survivor. When he moved the ellon to lie down, the elf whimpered in pain. His eye lids fluttered open revealing grey eyes with a fading light barely sparking in them.

Laurehér gave the ellon some water to drink, dampening the parched lips.

Gasping, the ellon whispered, "You live!  I...we tried to find you…one hundred of us. Found...your helm…gloves and dead orcs. We...we...came to rescue you. We...orcs ambushed us..." The ellon coughed wetly, blood spattering from his mouth.

Laurehér clasped the ellon close, the elf’s eyes showing his gratitude as he struggled to continue. "We are dead...all of us dead... I am the last. There are no more to come to our rescue. Our army is gone. None are left who came from Valinor." Coughing more blood on Laurehér’s tunic and cloak, he choked. "Arafinwë, my dear friend...my...my brother-in-arms... You must live…you…you must. My sons are gone...my atar died, leaving me lord of the House of Oaks. I have none to be lord in my place. Let not your atar’s line end as well! You are all that is left. Morgoth will win if your line ends." Tears slipped from the ellon's eyes as he wheezed through the blood on his lips. "I am all alone, b-bereft of all I loved as are you. Bereft and alone... Hide! Do not let the orcs catch you! I...I... Námo calls..."

A name unbidden came to Laurehér's lips. "Sartandil!" he cried, clutching the Elf closer to his breast. “NO! SARTANDIL! NO!"

But even as he called, Laurehér knew it was too late.

For hours he wept, sobbing and aching, tears chilling his face as he huddled there over the cooling body of a once dear friend whom he remembered only in name.

At last he calmed and the late afternoon sun reminded him that he would be spending another night alone in the cold. Quietly, he set about trying to find some way to honor the bodies of his friend and the other fallen about him. All the while, he considered what he had learned.

If his friend had spoken truly, then his name was Arafinwë and he was more alone now than ever before. Faroniel had said that some Elves still lived scattered about Beleriand, but to hear he may be the last of the Elves of Valinor and no more would come! What did Sartandil mean by that?

Had the battle he found been the last stand of the army of Valinor? Somehow he could not believe that. Not from what he had learned from Faroniel about the war. Men should have been here as well and there had been none. What if Men were all that remained to carry on the fight?

No, not all, for he was still here as well and he would fight again if he had to. But where was the fight? And what of his friend’s words about not letting his own line die out? At least that had confirmed for him what he had long feared in his heart – he was the only one left of his kin. He really was alone.

Something else his friend had said troubled him greatly. Why would Morgoth win if his line were to die out? Who was he that he mattered so much that so many came looking for him? In his heart, he knew it was right that they should look for him, but why? And why would Morgoth care if he lived or died? Perhaps his friend was merely trying to encourage him to stand against the despair he knew would assail a lone survivor? He did not know. What he did know now at least was that his name was Arafinwë and he was alone.

A glint of sunlight caught on the gold ring on his right hand as he worked. He also knew now that he was the last of his kin. He had no one to return to either, just like Sartandil. Had he kept the ring as a reminder then of what he once had had and what was now lost to him? Tears stung his eyes once again, blinding him as he wept for the past that he now was to bury with the bodies of these slain who seemed to be the last to remember who he was.

Some time later, his grim task complete, he picked up a helmet and gloves he had found near his friend which seemed to match the armor he wore now. He guessed these must have been his, so he donned them and walked away. Too sick of heart to eat and unable to bear to be in this place of sorrow any longer, he kept moving, uncaring of the direction so long as it was away from the orcs and the dead warriors. Why had so many been willing to endure the cold and the danger to try to find him? Now he was responsible for their deaths. From what Sartandil said, one hundred warriors from Valinor had died, and invariably it was his fault. Where should he have been that he was not so they had to go looking for him? Could he find that place again or should he even bother trying? He deserved whatever punishment awaited him if he ever returned to that place, but then again… Who would be there to mete out his punishment if everyone from the army of Valinor were gone? Perhaps the greater punishment would be to never return to Valinor. Was there any forgiveness to be found there for the crime he committed in being the subject of their hunt, the cause of their deaths?

But then again, Sartandil said they were to rescue him, not hunt him down. Who was Arafinwë that warriors would be willing to die trying to rescue him? He was not certain he wanted to know any longer. Whoever Arafinwë was, Laurehér knew one thing for certain, he did not deserve to live after one hundred ellyn met their deaths because of him.

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When the first light of the cold cloudy dawn found him, he recognized some of the features of the land. Without realizing it, he had stumbled upon the way he had come. Well, he decided, it was as good as any other choice for now and more likely to keep him alive for a while longer. He would return to Faroniel and decide his future from there. There were tasks enough to occupy his hands and a kind spirit to keep him company. Besides, recruiters had come to her settlement before to gather men for the war. If they returned again, he would go with them and fight again. Until then, he would have a home, unless Faroniel did not welcome his return. She seemed so lonely though and had genuinely wanted him there, enjoying his presence and his help. She most likely would welcome his return. He hoped so at least. And that was all he could do right now: hope.

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It took him longer to return than he had anticipated. Travel was slower with his grief still a constant companion, and he was not entirely certain of the way back. It was snowing again when he found one of her traps near midday on his fourth day of journeying. As a gesture of kindness and apology, he took the catch with him and reset the trap. Now that he knew where he was, it was easier going so he decided to check the remaining traps and bring the spoils to her. This delayed his return, but by the time he saw her cabin in the distance, his arms were full and he knew she would be pleased with that if nothing else.

Working quickly despite the cold, he lit a lantern hanging in the barn, removed his helmet and gloves, and prepared the catch as he had before under her direction so that all would be in readiness for her in the morning. The woodpile was getting low and he would need to chop some more wood in the morning, but he would gather what he thought would be enough for the night when he went to greet her. The work here was not difficult but it would take time and it would keep him busy and that was all that he wanted right now – something to keep him busy while he waited for…He was not certain what he was waiting for really, but he needed something to do and a place to call home for now.

Her horse whinnied, but as he walked over to rub it, an arrow flew past his head and thudded into the wall behind him. Immediately he drew his sword and moved into the shadows away from the horse.

“That arrow was a warning.” Faroniel shouted angrily. “The next one will not miss. Now tell me who you are and why you are here.”

Keeping his sword raised for he was no longer so certain that she would be glad to see him again, he called, “Faroniel, it is I, Laurehér. Please do not shoot me.”

“Why should I not?” She called back, hurt obvious in her voice. “You did not even say goodbye to me, you coward. Why have you come back now?”

He closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. He probably did deserve her anger. Sighing he opened eyes, but remained still, fearing she might shoot him if he moved suddenly. “I did not know what to say to you and I feared you would not let me go or that you would try to go with me. I needed to go alone on my search.”

“You left me alone even after all I did to help you,” she spat. “Was it worth it going away? Did you find what you were looking for? And why did you even bother coming back?”

“I did leave you alone and I am sorry for that, but it was necessary. You were wrong about my people for they did come looking for me.”

“So why have you come back? Did they not want you anymore? Did you leave them without saying goodbye, too?”

He hesitated, for the grief suddenly welled back up in his heart again. “Oh, they wanted me all right and…one hundred had come in search of me, but I found them too late. They had been ambushed by orcs and…” but his voice broke as he spoke, “The…the last of them died in my arms. His name was Sartandil, Lord of the House of Oaks. I believe he and I were dear friends for so he said to me though I still have no memory of him from before other than his name. I made my farewell by burying him and the other twelve warriors who the orcs did not drag away after the battle. I saw evidence of dozens of wounded or dead warriors having been dragged away by the orcs.”

Faroniel lowered her bow and walked over to him, her face full of sorrow and compassion. “Laurehér, I…”

He lowered his sword, suddenly feeling very tired and worn. “Sartandil told me that I am the last of my house as he was the last of his. He said that the army of Valinor is no more and told me to hide, and that I needed to survive or Morgoth would truly win. I really am alone now, Faroniel. There is no one left to come for me and I have nowhere else to go. I truly am alone.”

Setting her bow and the loose arrow on the ground she straightened and placed a tentative hand on his chest. “There is blood on your clothing. Is it Sartandil’s?”

Nodding grimly and guiltily, Laurehér dropped his sword. Gently she took him into her embrace and he sobbed into her unbound hair.

“Laurehér,” she whispered in his ear. “I am so very sorry for your loss. I…I did not realize…I feel so terrible for what I said. I am so sorry. So very sorry for you.”

Holding him tightly, she patted and rubbed his back, letting him mourn until he could get his emotions under control enough to move again. When he at last stepped away from her embrace, she retrieved his sword and her bow and arrow. Once he sheathed his sword, she took him by the hand and led him back to the house. Quietly she tended to him, preparing him food while he bathed and changed clothes. It was quite late by the time he crawled into bed beside her. As he lay back and made himself comfortable, she turned on her side and looked at him.

“If you do not mind my asking, what else did your friend tell you before he died?”

Laurehér sighed. “He told me that his atar and his sons are dead, I guess in previous battles, and he also called me by my real name.”

“I am sorry,” She whispered, then paused, reaching over and brushing his cheek with her fingertips. “What is your real name then so that I may properly address you?” she finally asked.

He blinked back tears again for his heart still ached fiercely. “I…I do not wish to use that name again or even hear it spoken. I think it must have been important, but it cost too many ellyn their lives. Too many…I am not worth that sacrifice. I…I wish I had not gone searching and I wish I did not know what befell my people. It hurts too much to even think about. Now I wish I could forget it all again. I only wish to be Laurehér so that no one else will die because of me.”

Sitting up a bit, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Very well, then Laurehér you shall be.” Tentatively, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, smiling a little sadly as he rested his head on her shoulder. “And you are not alone in this world, much as you may feel that you are.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. Dreading the dreams of memories that were sure to come, he reluctantly closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her gratefully. At least he need not face it all alone now.

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